


Love?

by 12231singingintheclub



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, M/M, Rehabilitation, idk the plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22684060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/12231singingintheclub/pseuds/12231singingintheclub
Summary: Sherlock Holmes ran a drug cartel in a rehabilitation centre until Mycroft intervened. Then Sherlock finds an unusual source of affection. And then he meets John Watson.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was a (recovering) drug addict. He got discharged from rehab earlier in the year and has, since, found himself incredibly bored. This isn’t to say that he was particularly entertained while inside, no - the group exercises, therapy and documented self-reflections did nothing for him in terms of recovery or intellectual stimulation. 

But at least it was something. Something to keep him occupied, something to do. 

Occasionally, he indulged in outwardly deducing the deepest secrets and fantasies of his fellow addicts. He tried to reserve it for whenever they particularly irritated him, but sometimes the boredom was an all-consuming force and watching an uncoordinated flail of limbs launch at him abated it, if only for a moment. If he was ever spoiling himself, sometimes he let slip what faculty members were sleeping with each other. Or what they truly thought of some of the patients.

He had a relatively good rapport with some of them, surprisingly enough. They laughed when he took his deductions a step too far and got angry when he used his abilities to target them. In the beginning, they came to him when they required another hit. Even before he went in, he made sure he had the right connections and had devised an ability to obtain. Mycroft had to visit him, then. 

Obviously some of them had got sloppy in hiding from the cameras.

“Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sherlock had asked before the door to his room (cell) had opened. Slow, deliberate steps punctuated by the occasional tap of an umbrella reverberated down the corridor. Obvious. 

Did his brother realise how easily that thing gave him away? 

The guard, Sebestian, unlocked the door and Mycroft walked in - out of place in his three-piece suit. Seb looked to Sherlock, a silent question of if he was okay to be left alone.

Sherlock nodded and he left again - bolting the door as he did. He had to remain outside until his brother had either left or he was forced to intervene. Sherlock was, obviously, a liability. A potential threat.

Scanning him up, but not rising in greeting, he wasn’t surprised to see how little his older brother had changed over the three months, outside of the extra three pounds.

“Brother mine. How have you been?”

“Oh, fantastic," Sherlock spat. "They’ve taught me so much and I’m well on my way to recovery. Recovery is a journey and a journey is all of the small decisions I make every day.” 

He retorted the therapy line he’d without missing a beat.

Mycroft settled into the chair across from the bed, barely suppressing an eye roll.

“I wouldn’t sit. You won’t be here long.” 

“Will I not? Perhaps I just longed for the company of my younger brother.” 

“Please,” Sherlock gwaffed. “I know why you’re here. Hardly a social call.”

Mycroft stood, heeding the warning in his tone but having no true inclination to leave. At least not until he’d completed his task.

“You need to stop.” 

“Stop what? Using? Not to worry, Mycroft, I’m well on the way to sobriety. It may not be easy, but I’m slowly learning there are no chemical solutions to spiritual problems.” Sherlock grinned, all teeth. He could recite the entire handbook. 

Mycroft smiled back, not letting himself be rattled. “Ah, little brother, it is heartening to hear you talk so… positively. This place must be doing wonders for you.”

Sherlock scoffed and collapsed back onto the bed. 

“But, believe me, Sherlock, if you do not stop your mini-cartel, I can make life far more uncomfortable for you in here.” 

“Is this an intervention?” 

“Of sorts.” Mycroft posed. 

“Hm. You’re not doing a very good job." 

"You've not given me much of a chance, little brother." 

Sherlock ignored that. "Shouldn’t it be the responsibility of the guards,” he waved towards the door, “or the higher-ups, to sort this out? I wonder why they sent you, hm?” 

“Spare me the pretence of acting as if you don’t have half of the guards wrapped around your little finger - they’re all protecting you. None of them will admit they’re involved. every ‘random check’ comes back with nothing. Without the information or their cooperation, management cannot figure it out.” 

“You could,” Sherlock replied, steepling his finger under his chin. 

“I have my theories, of course. But I don’t have the time. Some of us actually have work to be doing, hm?” 

“What is it you do again?”

Mycroft took a deep breath and rolled back his shoulders. Sherlock was attempting to frustrate him to have him leave sooner. A clever tactic, yes, but sometimes he was almost laughably transparent. He stood his ground. 

“Sherlock. Please.” 

Sherlock flopped and faced the wall - he had not missed Mycroft’s company.

Obviously not taking the bait, Mycroft remained in the room and shuffled towards a different tactic. Stooping to bribery was something he was usually against, but desperate times and all that. 

“I can get you internet access again. I know you’ve got a phone.” Sherlocked turned around. “And no, I’m not interested in taking it from you. Name your price.” 

“You know what I want.” 

“Be realistic.”

Sherlock stood, moving to stand closer to his brother. Nearer, he could detect a slight sweat forming around his hairline. Interesting. 

“Freedom, Mycroft. Let me out of this place and I promise you it will never see a whiff of narcotics ever again.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Yes you can, you’re the British Government.” 

Mycroft smirked - Sherlock’s display of ignorance earlier now nullified. He tried another tactic. 

“These are vulnerable people, Sherlock. These people are supposed to be recovering.” Mycroft enunciated every word. “Do you really think you’re doing them any favours?” 

“Attempting to appeal to the better nature of a recovering junkie, Mycroft?” He let himself chuckle lightly. “They must be getting desperate.” 

Mycroft ran a hand through his thinning hair. It was a gesture that had supposedly been effectively stamped out by his parents, and then his PR team - Sherlock knew it only arose in moments of great stress now.

“I think allowing them to go entirely cold turkey is risky and can cause more difficulties than they are aware of. Not enough research has been done by this facility into the withdrawal process - they treat us like children.” 

Mycroft considered this for a moment.  
“You’re slowly dwindling the dose you’re giving them?” 

Sherlock nodded. 

“And you’re not using yourself.” It wasn’t posed it as a question. 

Pushing up the sleeve of his ill-fitting shirt, he bared his forearm. The track marks were old. Mycroft noted that the most recent was at made at least two months ago. That meant that he must have used whilst inside… because he made sure to have tested his theory on himself first.

Mycroft’s anger subsided.

“So that’s what this is about, is it? You’re trying to, to help them?” 

“Hm. Certainly appears that way, doesn’t it?” Sherlocked whipped. “And, in turn, that means you’re an active obstruction to the one shred of decent assistance they’re receiving.” 

A pointed silence served as his reply. 

Those who said Sherlock had no heart didn’t know what they were talking about, Mycroft thought. Obviously, he was under no illusion that what he was doing was entirely selfless, but this had obviously flourished into something beyond himself. 

It was almost caring. Almost. Mycroft shuddered at the thought. 

“So what will it be?” Sherlock almost spat the words. “What’s my punishment, Officer?” 

Mycroft’s gaze dropped to the floor; he’d theorised twenty-two different ways this conversation could have gone and had planned corresponding outcomes for all of them. Naturally, he didn’t take into consideration the possibility of his little brother acting out of something far too resemblant to empathy. He was, for once, at a loss for words. 

Sherlocked huffed and rapped on the door, alerting Seb that he wished for Mycroft to leave now. 

“I will talk to management.” He turned to face Sherlock once more before he was escorted out of the room by the blonde. “Goodbye, brother dear. Keep out of trouble now, will you? I do worry.” 

Ignoring the remarks, Sherlock flopped back onto his bed and retrieved his phone. He made no overt effort to hide it now that all of the guards were on his side - no wonder it had been easy for Mycroft to spot it, he’d left it poking out under his pillow.

Perhaps he did get too relaxed there. He didn’t want to admit it, but Mycroft’s threat of making life here more uncomfortable for him, however empty it was, frightened him slightly. 

He was texting, arranging for the next batch of heroin to be delivered, slightly more diluted than the last, as he realised that - yes. Life had become passable.


	2. Project Holmes

Mycroft worked fast. In the early hours of the next morning, Seb had come in to see Sherlock and briefed him on the changes to the establishment:

\- Half of the management head team had been fired. They had been replaced with psychologists, general medical professionals, sociologists and doctors.  
\- The facility was going to begin implementing a program, akin to Sherlock’s own, to help with the withdrawal process. It was to rely on regulated, and therefore safe, versions of the substances they had become dependant on the outside - instead of the current prescriptions that served as ineffectual alternatives.   
\- This was to operate in the blindspot of the British Government despite the illegality of it.   
\- All of this meant Sherlock would no longer have to carry on his services, but Seb and the others offered their support him if he chose to for any reason.

Sherlock considered this a relative success and nodded. 

Seb was Sherlock’s unofficial personal guard whilst he was inside. He was ex-marines and suffered from an undiagnosed PTSD; he wasn’t one of small talk, and that suited Sherlock just fine. Evidently, he had memorised his sleeping pattern and thought to inform him of the changes before all of the inmates were informed later on. 

“I got your text. Do you think you’ll still be requiring -” Sherlock broke him off, knowing what he was referring to.

“Keep it on standby. I would hate to have nothing if this new scheme isn’t as successful as my brother believes it will be.” 

“Very good. Is there anything else?” 

Sherlock shook his head and didn’t feel inclined to watch him leave. Sherlock liked Seb - he was a steady man. An advantageous ally. 

He doesn’t muse on what could have been if they would have met in a different place or time.

**   
A few months after Mycroft’s visit, the program was well underway. It proved a huge success. Even though Sherlock despised that Mycroft had named it ‘Project Holmes’. 

Something that had managed to surprise Sherlock about rehab was the amount of affection present there. He was never one to buy into rumours of legends, heedless of how widely-believed they were, but all evidence whilst outside pointed to rehab as a place where aggression and mania were commonplace. 

Of course, he’d be a fool to deny that accusation had some merit. Yet, more often than not, there was physical intimacy. Nothing remotely sexual, of course, the withdrawal process tended to numb most of those impulses. 

But there was a closeness and easy camaraderie that he assumed would be foreign within these walls. 

It was certainly foreign to him. 

He remembered the first time it happened, in only his third week. He’d already broken out several times but Seb would always bring him back - it had gotten boring by his fifth, so he’d given up. He only had a few months there, after all.

In their shared space, they were given a selection of books and other things to keep them entertained. Sherlock sat on the floor, silently reading a non-fiction in the corner. 

Always observant of his surroundings, Sherlock saw before he felt a small body tuck into his side. At first, he had assumed it was an attack, but the passive look on the young man’s face hardly denoted signs of aggression.

Sherlock glanced down, confused. What was he doing? He had enough self-preservation to know that pushing him away could be perceived as aggressive, or could trigger something within the man - many, if not all, within the facility also suffered from mental health conditions. 

But he had always appreciated his personal space. Before he could voice this objection, however, a soft, cracking voice spoke up to him, killing the objection in his throat.

“Am I okay to stay here?” 

Sherlocked didn’t know what to say. No, absolutely not, go and cuddle someone else, would have worked, but also - that voice was the embodiment of desolation. It was so small, just like the man, and something within him told him that this man had already faced too much rejection in his life. 

Sherlock nodded before his brain could catch and create an objection. What was he doing? He began reading his book again as he felt thin arms wrap around his equally thin waist. 

He nuzzled into Sherlock’s side and muttered into the side of his ribcage. 

“Thank you.” And then he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive feedback is more than welcome!!


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, it happened again. 

“My name is Jim, by the way.” He spoke through a yawn, using Sherlock as a pillow once more. “I would tell you my last name, but I’m afraid that’s against the rules.”

Sherlock hummed. “But you don’t seem one to follow the rules at least outside of a place like this, Jim.” 

Jim chuckled and Sherlock felt it reverberate through his entirety. It was oddly… pleasant. 

“And how would you know that, hm?”

The question was probably rhetorical, the man was just ramblingly exhausted. But Sherlock, for all he had changed in here, was still a meretricious bastard at heart. 

“I can tell you’re a bisexual, Irish immigrant who suffers from night terrors, panic attacks and occasional hallucinations.” Sherlock began, and Jim looked up at him - suddenly engaged, sleep forgotten. “I’m no psychiatrist, so I won’t attempt to perform a diagnosis; although, naturally, I do have some ideas. Your family were religious, but you were, are, definitely not. You were the youngest by quite a fair margin; four older brothers, I want to say - none of them alive now, however. They never liked you, or your sexuality. Their death was the why and when behind you moving to England, which was when you found your poison of choice. Fun, at first, like for most of us - then you got dependant and well, here we are.” He gestured around, to the facility at large. 

Jim found a smirk forming and repositioned himself to face the brilliant mind besides him. “You could tell all of that, and I don’t even know your name.” 

“Sherlock.” 

Jim did something that surprised both of them, then. He crossed the space between them and crushed their lips together. 

Hm, Sherlock thought, so this was kissing. 

It wasn’t a particularly good kiss. Jim was gasping and grabbling and it didn’t last anywhere near the length of time he would have liked, but it crossed the bridge. It crossed the bridge from whatever they had to a little bit more than that. 

He didn’t want to hear Sherlock’s objections, so he spoke quickly, still leaning close. 

“Your turn to be laid bare now, Sherlock,” he began. “You’re evidently a privately educated, gay man who went to University in Scotland but, besides that, has lived in England, no - London, his whole life. Chemistry student, obviously - Doctorate, perhaps. You’re an only child. No… you have an older brother, one you don’t particularly like.” Sherlock let a small smile creep on to his face. “Poison of choice? Heroin. Sometimes cocaine, depending on your mood but you certainly had enough money for both. Far too much money for expensive cigarettes, too.” Jim paused, thinking. “That was until Mummy and Daddy handed you an ultimatum, wasn’t it? Rehab or no more money. So, here you are - albeit reluctantly.” 

Jim tried Sherlock’s facial expression after he finished. He looked… confused? Annoyed? Hurt? Maybe Jim had taken it too far this time and he’d just pushed him away. He didn’t want that, no, he really didn’t want - 

Sherlock silenced his thoughts by kissing him again, catching his exhale of relief and swallowing it greedily. Both struggled to believe that they had found each other. God, who knew there were others like this? Like them? People, geniuses, just tired of being bored.

“And, that,” Jim spoke breathlessly when they both broke away for air, “was the first kiss you’ve given willingly in your entire life.” 

Sherlock smirked and pulled Jim closer to him, book entirely forgotten on the floor by his feet. Both men content to just bask in each other's warmth and the feeling of being understood - finding their equal.

They didn’t talk again until the alarm that signalled the end of the break went off. Time passed too fast between them, dancing away like a jealous lover.

“Tomorrow?” Jim dared to let his expression sound hopeful. 

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock replied before they were both dragged back to their respective areas.

That night, Sherlock dreamed of Jim, of his brothers and of bullets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I tried too hard with this chapter lol


	4. Chapter 4

On the third day, Jim asked him about the books he was reading. 

“You read a lot.” 

“I do.” He paused. “Do you?” 

“I used to.” Sherlock didn’t ask. 

He was content to have his face nuzzled into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, settled comfortably on his lap. His arms were wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and he let himself press lazy, blooming kisses along the pale expanse whenever he saw fit.

Sherlock positioned himself around the small body in order to read, one hand stroking through his black hair and the other holding the book. 

He would have been lying if he said the words were going in.

They were sitting in an intimate position, one he would never have dreamed of being in with anyone he knew outside of those walls. Distantly, Sherlock realised how vulnerable, both emotionally and physically, it was. 

He had no doubt that Jim knew how to kill a man and had no doubt that he had in the past. But Sherlock’s neck was bared, and he tilted it every so often so Jim had better access. He could rip his throat out right now, and the dangerous thing was that Sherlock really didn’t mind too much. He trusted Jim. Less than ten hours together all together and he trusted him.

He heard Mycroft’s voice, then - wondering if there was anything left of the old Sherlock Holmes. The one before he discovered narcotics. The one before he was admitted to whatever this strange place was.

Absently, Sherlock noted that they weren’t getting any looks. It wasn’t exactly decent, Jim was straddling him and turning his neck all shades of purple and blue. The guards weren’t interrupting and nobody even glanced at them. 

Then he noticed how many people in the room were doing the same thing. 

There were pairs, like them, but, surprisingly, a few groups too. Thirteen other bodies laid, curled around each other - desperate to find some comfort when their heads kept telling them they were going to die and that nobody was ever going to love them. 

“I love you, Sherlock,” Jim muttered, oh so lightly, as he licked the shell of his ear. “I love you so goddamn much.” 

Sherlock replied. “I love you too.” 

And he meant it.

\--

The fourth day, Jim stayed in his room during the break. Sherlock pretended not to miss the comforting presence of the small man as he settled into his, their, corner and read to himself. 

It surprised him how many people more glanced his way that day, and if he was looking, he would have seen something akin to sorrow. 

\--

The fifth day, Jim wasn’t there again. Sherlock cursed for allowing himself to feel a knot to form in the pit of his stomach. For allowing himself to feel at all. 

He’d finished all of the books of that he knew would possibly hold his interest by now. He tried re-reading one of them, but nothing was holding his attention. He collapsed on one of the sofas - feeling something a quiet voice in his head told him was loneliness. 

A tree that’s never seen the sun never knew it lived in the shade, he supposed. 

He considered going back to his cell until he was approached by one of the guards. The guards weren’t allowed in their area, they had to stay by the door unless a threat was posed. Sherlock opened his eyes to see Sebastian looking down at him.

“Ran out of books, eh?” 

Evidently. 

“Mm.” Sherlock didn’t feel up to talking much.

The man gave him a warm smile. “Don’t worry - I’ll see what I can do.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but nodded. The strange guard sat next to him then. He lowered his voice. “Jim’ll be ‘right, you know. He’s just not be sleeping well.” 

“Can I see him?” 

He shook his head and stood, evidently as fearful as getting caught as Sherlock was. 

“Hey, pretty boy. Why don’t you come and sit with us?” 

Without consulting with his higher faculties, he moved to sit closer to another group of three (or four, it was difficult to tell with the tangle of limbs) who swiftly pulled them into their bundle. 

Later, he casually questioned whether this was what the gentle pull towards insanity truly was - laced with comfort and the welcoming embrace of many.


	5. Chapter 5

On the sixth day, Sherlock arrived early for once and found himself waiting by the door for Jim. He didn’t think why - if the last two days were anything to go by, it was not likely Jim was going to be there. Regardless of what the guard told him yesterday.

When the door opened and the small man crept in, Sherlock couldn’t help the brief flash of relief on his face. Noting this, Jim launched himself at Sherlock and Sherlock surprised himself by returning the embrace equally as tight. 

They spent over an hour that day just talking. Sherlock didn’t find himself bored once as he usually did in conversations with idles, and it allowed him to realise that Jim was quite like him in a way - just a man who wished to stop being bored. A genius and a social outcast.

“You’re a special man, Sherlock. A very special man.” His voice was reverent, coated with adoration and dipped in wonder. 

The rest of their time they cuddled, but not how they had done before. Sherlock allowed Jim’s small body to rest on his lap and, without thinking about the book he was reading, they tangled their limbs around each other’s.

After a week, for the first time in a month, Sherlock found himself wishing their break was longer. Their ward was small, only fifteen of them altogether, and they had all just ended up cuddling up together until their time was over.

The part of Sherlock’s brain that remembered him before he was admitted distantly questioned what he was doing.


End file.
